Already Dead
by JoBee 1
Summary: Alex Rider is already dead inside, so what happens next is just the official ending to a life that was already over...


Disclaimer: Last year I asked Father Christmas for World Domination, but I figured that that wouldn't fit down the chimney, so this year I've asked for the rights to Alex Rider...

Already Dead

If there was one useful thing that MI6 had taught Alex Rider, it was the value of a good plan. Alex had started planning for this around two months ago. He had spent three weeks thinking through his decision, knowing that once he'd made it there would be no going back. Then, having decided, Alex made sure that his plan was foolproof. It had to be. He was a very hard person to kill.

The first thing he had done was to suggest one evening whilst they were eating dinner that Jack should go and visit her parents. Jack had been surprised at first, and then reluctant to go without him. Even so, it hadn't taken much to persuade her that it was a good idea. Alex knew that Jack had missed her parents, and he knew that she had stayed out of an obligation to be here for him.

Alex had promised that he wouldn't do anything stupid, and that he wouldn't leave on any missions while she was away. He'd avoided the other promises; that he would look after himself, or that he'd be here when she got back. He didn't believe in breaking his promises. He had promised her one other thing though: that he would phone up MI6, and get them to send someone around every evening to check on him. Jack hadn't been suspicious, and Alex felt the first twinge of regret. He was good at lying; that was another thing that MI6 had taught him.

Surprisingly, MI6 hadn't put up a protest; Mrs Jones had agreed almost instantly. That was stage one of the plan – essential, because he couldn't bear the thought of Jack finding his body. He'd leave that to someone who didn't care about him, someone who'd already seen dead bodies. He felt the second twinge of regret then, because Jack would be upset. But that was alright, because at least she would still be alive. MI6 was very good at getting people killed.

Stage two was even simpler: research. He couldn't have gotten hold of a gun very easily, so he looked for the next best thing. It had taken an hour and a half to decide on the best method, one that, hopefully, would be infallible. By the time he was found, he expected to be long dead.

-

On a grey April afternoon, a grey, nondescript Audi pulled up in front of a house in Chelsea. There was only one person in the car: the driver. He was in his late forties, and walked with a slight limp, where he'd been shot a month ago in Iran. He'd been out of the hospital for two weeks, and had been given a few months of desk duty whilst his leg healed. In truth, the man was grateful to have been given the job of checking up on the boy; it relieved the tedium of a boring day at the office, shuffling files around. He checked out an hour early each night, claiming to spend forty-five minutes with the boy. In reality, he didn't stay as long as five minutes; he opened the door, asked if the boy was alright, and then left, meaning he got home at half four.

Today was no different to any other day. He got out of his car, and walked up to the front door, opening it with a key. Stepping inside, he checked the front room, and then, finding no-one, the kitchen.

The boy was lying on the floor, an oddly peaceful expression on his face. For a moment, the man wondered what he was doing, and then he realised that the tiles were stained dark, dark red, and the boy's face was deathly pale. His palms were both facing upwards, revealing two deep, perfectly straight red lines on his arms, each going from his elbow to his wrist.

The man knelt beside the boy, checking for a pulse, though he knew that he was several hours too late. On the floor at his side lay a kitchen knife, and a bottle of prescription pills. He picked them up, and realised that he recognised the name. They were a strong pain killer, the ones given to him after he had been shot, and the prescription was filled out to an Alex Rider.

He hadn't asked the boy's name, knowing he wouldn't have been told even if he'd asked. He hadn't needed to; the moment he had seen him, he had known who he was. The boy looked exactly like his father. Briefly, he wondered why the boy had been prescribed such strong painkillers, and what had caused him to resort to this. Standing up, he punched a number into his mobile. The person on the other end picked up after the first ring.

"It's Johnson, sir. Alex Rider is dead."

-

Mrs Jones read the note that Johnson had found on the kitchen table. It had been written on a piece of rough paper that had been torn out of a pad. The ink had spread, but the letter was still legible. Reading it, she realised that this wasn't an ordinary suicide note – it had been carefully thought out, just like his death. But then, Alex Rider hadn't been an ordinary boy.

_Mrs Jones_

_A few months ago, I asked you to stay out of my life. I told you I wanted no part in what you do. You gave me your word, and then you broke it. A year ago, I was still a normal boy; I had friends, I went to school, played football, and did everything a normal teenage boy would do. MI6 took my parents from me, took my uncle from me, and then you took my life from me. I am no longer a normal teenage boy. I can't go to the cinema with my friends without wondering who the person in the row behind is. I can't tell my friends why I've been away from school, even though they know I couldn't have been ill – again. My teachers believed I would have failed my GCSEs next year, if I was actually at school to take them._

_I have taken the coward's way out; ending the life that wasn't really mine anymore anyway. I probably wouldn't have lived much longer even if I hadn't. _

_Alex_

There was another letter on the table, on a more expensive piece of paper. It was addressed to Jack, and even though Blunt expected her to read that too, Jones left it unopened. They had interfered in Alex's life too much already. Instead, Mrs Jones slowly unwrapped another mint, twisting the plastic wrapper between her fingers. It didn't disguise the taste of death in her mouth this time, because this time was different. She hadn't sent an adult to their death, knowing that they had made a conscious decision to join MI6. Alex was just fifteen, and he hadn't chosen this life – they had blackmailed him.

Alex was right: he hadn't committed suicide. It was too late for that. MI6 had taken his life away when they had first brought him to the Royal and General. Mrs Jones popped a second mint in her mouth. She had known what they were doing to him all along, she realised. She just hadn't admitted it to herself, somehow believing that they wouldn't need to call him again, believing each time that it would be the last time. Deep down, she knew that that wasn't true. They would have used him time and time again. Perhaps Alex had been right to end it.

Five minutes later, the phone rang, and Mrs Jones picked it up, only half listening to the angry male voice on the other end of the line. When Daniels had run out of abuse to hurl at his boss, Mrs Jones put the phone down, and ate another mint, before the taste of the last mint had faded. She was eating mints faster than normal today. She knew that that was because Agent Daniels was right.

-

At half-past five, Blunt walked in to her office. "I've reassigned the Rider case." He told her. "I've given it to Young" Mrs Jones nodded, not looking up. She didn't think she could bear to look at her bosses' emotionless face. "It was a shame." Blunt acknowledged before he left. "Rider was a good agent; our best. All the Riders were."

Mrs Jones opened another mint as the door closed, making a final decision. She would organise Alex's funeral and make sure that all Ian's money went to Jack; it had been in a trust fund until Alex was twenty-one. After that was done, she would retire. She'd done enough damage.

A.N. This is my first fan fic, so if you could review, I'd really appreciate it... and...erm... yeh, I hope you liked it.


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